WeissKreuz Stalker
by LoveyouHateyou
Summary: Schuldig rambles on about his obsession, Crawford is uneasy, Aya is himself, and Yohji gets tangled up… he’s just too good for all this. A contemplative piece. Rated for male male affection.


**Stalker**

**xxx**

Schuldig rambles on about his obsession, Crawford is uneasy, Aya is himself, and Yohji gets tangled up… he's just too good for all this.

**xxx**

**Disclaimer:** This story is not for profit, all rights with their current owners.  
**Warnings:** Don't think there are any spoilers in this one. The boys are foulmouthed, even though Schuldig can be surprisingly mature about this.  
**Rating:** **M** for male/male affection and references to sex between men.  
**Pairs **(I would not call them couples):Aya/Yohji (destiny interrupted... again, and again, and... man, if Aya only got his act together!), references to Crawford/Schuldig (smoke and fire).

**xxx**

**Comtess, Lady Orient**, don't worry – I am glad to know you like what you read, and that you are still watching out for my stories. To all the other **lovely reviewers **on various stories of mine, thank you so much for your time and praise, which I find inspiring and encouraging.

LH

**xxx**

I am guilty in many ways.  
Yet I suppose watching Balinese and Abyssinian is one of my lesser sins.

So I lit a cigarette, settled on the windowsill of the half-open window of an empty apartment opposite their shop and stared.

Abyssinian getting dressed was some show. His pretty face flushed a deep red to rival his false hair colour, the blush extending until it was splashed all over his bony neck and angular, slender shoulders while Balinese, in nothing but black briefs, was on his knees before him, worshipping…

Wrapping the fundoshi around those pale hips, threading it through between those white thighs, golden hands caressing, smoothing, trying to infuse some warmth into this chill body… he was trying to warm a corpse, for all I knew. He pressed a kiss to Abyssinian's groin – how could the redhead still be soft after receiving such treatment? It was beyond me 'cos I was nearly coming in my pants just watching and imagining…

I'd give a lot to have Balinese's gifted hands on me like that. But Ihave to work for it, and be a lot more patient than this capricious prick he's taken for a lover. Ah, here we go – Balinese is holding out a near-transparent white hadajuban, silk gauze for Abyssinian to wear next to his naked, pretty skin that Far would love to scour a bit. He ties the cord and slides a pale blue nagajuban on those unyielding, wiry limbs. Another layer, more silk of course; only the very best will do for the redhead, and Balinese is wrapping him up like some sort of precious gift. Abyssinian is all about layers, so many he's forgotten there's something beneath them.

Balinese has not. He can be persistent, more than is good for him.

A dark grey underkimono on top of the nagajuban. Not that he skimps – the stuff is shibori-dyed and hand-painted with pale purple wisteria trailing down his back, the stamens stencilled in gold leaf. You could buy a flash new car for the price of this rag alone, apiecethat will never see the light of day except when Balinese gets to peel it off again. Reverently, Balinese smoothes out every cink and wrinkle; he is taking his sweet time here. When he is finally done,Abyssinian shrugs into a black formal kimono, with a faintly gold-patterned, narrow, stiff silk obi, and climbs into his black-and-white pinstriped hakama. Balinese helps him tie the strings even though Abyssinian can do this perfectly well by himself, but the blond gets to lay his hands onto his crimson lover some more by doing this. Long, steely, wire-marked hands. Murderous, deliciously tender hands…

They are idiots, the pair of them.

Where the five mon should be on his kimono, Abyssinian has blank white patches, embroidered insilk– he is making a statement by not wearing any family insignia, and whatever they're planning, it will make him stand out like a sore thumb. Not that this would be an effort for him; he is awkward in every sense except when heis huntingto kill. Balinese bends low, his tousled hair falling into his pretty face while he places one of Abyssinian's feet onto his thigh to pull a tabi sock over it – white cotton, soft and tight on small white feet. He slips on a grass-woven zori with snow-white straps of silkrope, to complement the look, and repeats the whole thing with Abyssinian's other foot. Not passing up the opportunity to let his hands slide higher until they disappear beneath the middle fold of the hakama, and this works at last: Abyssinian's eyes slide half-shut and he bites back a moan. I hate him. I can see he is close to losing it, and Balinese, slowly rising to his feet, has a soft smile on his lips as he ducks his head to kiss him.

Balinese is a skilled kisser. Sensuous, languid, with just the right amount of force to convey what he is after, his tongue giving a flavour of what he can do... He tastes as golden as he looks.

Redhead clings to Balinese for dear life, yet I can see that his grip is painful – Balinese winces ever so slightly, and his hands splay on the silk-clad back, fingertips fanned to press lightly into the stiff, cool fabric until Abyssinian draws a shuddering breath and forces his eyes open, balance regained, glare firmly in place.

I really hate him.

Finally, he dons his katana and a black haori with hand-painted and gold-stencilled lining. He closes it with silverwhite ties. No mon here, either. Still, his outfit is worth a fortune, and he glows in it like some cold jewel. Where are they going?**1**

Balinese lets him sit down and wait as he goes to dress. When he reappears in the doorway, he is sheathed in a cream coloured suit tailored so sharply it would make even Brad blanch with envy. His crisp white shirt is unbuttoned down to his collarbone – a lovely twin curve, like a Cupid's bow, with a delicious little dip at its centre. It pleases me toknow how the sweat tastes that sometimes gathers there in tiny droplets…

Plain golden cufflinks, expensive chocolate brown shoes, whispersoft leather gloves of the same colour to make his outfit informal in the most expensive, snootily understated way. He does not like his hands naked; they remind him too much of how he earns his living. A hairfine gold necklace emphasises his long, tanned neck and smooth throat, and he wears a single, real diamond stud that cascades pure fire with ever breath he takes. He has expensive tastes and indulges them when he has the means.

Warmth. Golden, glowing, sweet warmth – Balinese oozes honeyed attraction, and he knows it. It shows in his cat-green eyes, shaded and alert, slightly slanted in a narrow, sharply handsome face. They gleam from artfully mussed bleachblond hair, strands of bright light lacing with darker, burnished gold and honeyed brown, playing in soft, almost shoulder-long waves about his angular features.

When I close my eyes, I can even smell him: an earthy,heady scent of sandalwood and hot caramel. He smiles, an odd, half-indulgent, half-cautious curving of lips as Abyssinian gives him the look. The glare of purple contact lenses, a disapproving scowl the redhead pulls every time he wants to conceal his jealous admiration. Which means he has taken to wearing this face almost always. Little does he know that he is as pretty as a doll himself, with his intense, cold looks. Or rather, he refuses to acknowledge it, however often Balinese keeps telling him. Abyssinian has the colours of death and winter – snow white, blood red, frozen purple, and midnight black. He reminds me of congealing blood.

Ice Doll. Once, he tried to murder me for calling him that.I just left him to his rage. It was not my idea, anyway. He would have killed Balinese had the blond ever tried to tell him… but it was inBali's thoughts. I knew, for I had been in his dreams, rummaging around in this beautifully sane, suffering mind of his, making myself at home…

I liked what I found. Bali's mind is a clean, if somewhat cluttered place, warmed by a quiet fire on the hearth… the bed aired, covers thrown back invitingly… and Abyssinian refused to climb in. Idiot.

Later, he was begging. With redemption right under his nose, he was pleading with US for salvation, and Far took pleasure in dispensing absolution. He's got the knack for rituals, even though he's mocking them. Oh, I enjoyed playing the game, but in the end, Abyssinian was boring me because he was too predictable. From the outset, I knew where it would end, with him bleeding and gasping and still not at peace.

Balinese is another matter. He's had a good taste of life, and he is still so delightfully sane.  
A challenge. A chance… Oddly enough, Brad who so far never seemed to care, now appears uneasy about my newest choice of toy. How interesting…

The blond is taller than Abyssinian and older. He is stronger at close quarters, he is fast, his grip steeled by using this wire noose of his. He is an expert – the term lady killer has taken on a whole new irony with him. I like the slant. He tolerates his team mates with theirantics and still has the nerve to be their crybag;and when he goes out, hehas the world at his feet even if this world consists of no more than a few seedy clubs in the city. He could have more, but he does not try for it. It angers me.

For he is whole. Abyssinian is a wreck.

Yet it will be Balinese who leans towards the redhead when they are talking or sitting next to one another in the car. It will be him smiling away whatever their latest spat might have been – they have many. He smoothes, eases, coaxes Abyssinian into a semblance of life, whether redhead likes it or not – Balinese does not leave him any options, even if it shows on his scarred amber hide. Oh, it can hurt to live – not that I'd sympathise, I have my own issues to deal with, and they're called Brad, Crawford, and Oracle.

And to know it will be the blond who yields control when he and redhead are in bed together.

Every time. He throws to the wind his reflexes, his precautions, his instincts. Almost always he is rewarded with bumps and bruises, not only to his skin but to his mind and this thing thumping in his chest – he has not managed to silence his heart, the fool. I know because I am a master at reading minds, whether I like it or not. In his case, I'm torn between wanting and hating it - his mind is open, sunny, with a few uncharted depths and nowhere to hide. The sea, gloriously shiny, on a becalmed summer morning.

Abyssinian's mind is empty and cold. A wasteland, with only one thought pulsing slowly like chilled oil…

His revenge.  
Balinese hated me for telling him.

Well, some people don't know how to handle the truth, and here I had him – he likes his comfort lies. Cheap,flimsy little things. So I tore them away. I stripped him bare and watched. It would have been interesting to see him shatter.

He grew loud. Then he grew still. And then he scraped himself together, turned his back on me and redoubled his efforts to warm that piece of ice he'd chosen for a lover. How stupid. How futile. How very annoying.

Brad had a field day 'cos of course, he worked it out long before I ought to have admitted defeat. Only that I never would. Balinese is wasted on Abyssinian. He believes in hope, Abyssinian believes in revenge, and I…

It shocked me to realise.  
It hit home with the force of a train.  
It left me reeling.

For I realised that I believed in Balinese. That this asshole had rekindled something I'd spent so much effort to swat down and bury: hope. I hoped he'd succeed, and I hoped he'd fail, and Brad got all jittery and had a temper fit when he got a glimpse of my mind. And then I hoped some more 'cos the only reason he'd have that damn fit was jealousy.

Brad was jealous.He made me feel how that looks like, and let me know that we should believe in him alone. There was some force behind his explanation, and I had a black welt on my cheekbone for days after that, plus something on my face that Far called a stupid grin. Nagi just looked disgusted, but he did bring me an icepack for my bruise. The kid's wasted here. We're all dead, the four of us. I don't want to be dead.

Balinese likes life; Abyssinian never knew how to live. He will never learn it, if I have my way, and I will. He is not even nice to toy with, and I have made it my personal hobby to try and convince Balinese that he'd be better off without redhead.

Even Far thinks I'm bonkers for bothering. He would love to dissect Balinese to find in his brains whatever keeps him going. Far thinks he can see hope, and he's told me it has colours. Like a rainbow. He considers it unfortunate that Balinese is unlikely to survive this kind of surgery, and we keeparguing because this I cannot allow – I want my toys to last. Balinese is sweet, bright and tough – I have more trouble finding good playthings than Far, and I'm not prepared to let off this one.

So I let him play with Abyssinian instead, who was willing, yapping for it, and still craving more when Far was done, bored witless and frustrated, letting Abyssinian bleed from the gashes he hadcarved on his back and stomach. Pain wanted is not the kind of pain Far likes to savour. He feeds of other things. He needs agony to feel.

But I had what I wanted, for Balinese came to get back the redhead. He returned to the game solely to collect his ice doll who repaid the favour by cutting him. And they call us weird…

We struck a deal that evening, Balinese and I, when he burst into the flat where we held Abyssinian. Balinese got to keep him, alive. I got to keep… well, what did I get? I could have asked anything that night. I read it in his eyes – hard, hostile, desperate yet knowing. Willing to outlive anything, for the sake of hope. He would have bent to necessity, in every sense, and my rather graphic thoughts of having him over a barrel did excite me a lot. But I decided against it.

I did not like the idea of another boring, broken toy. So I got reckless. I let him off.

Even better, I gave him back his purpose when I told Far to cut the ropes that bound Abyssinian. Who was ready to die the moment he realised Balinese was there to witness what had happened. I refused him the favour. I wanted to see Balinese pick his path through the wreckage. Watch him writhe in agony, for Far to enjoy – my games are deadlier than his, if I want them to be.

For betrayal can cut like a knife: swift, sharp, deadly. Or, in this case,worm its way through an unspoilt mind like poison. Slow, wicked, unfailing. Delirious. Wonderful.

I love to see him wrestle with it all. He will talk to me, sometimes. When he has run out of options after yet another one of their fights, with nowhere to go, I will pick him up, and we drive to this place that belongs only to me and him. He knows I am watching him; this was the deal we struck: he got back his lover, I got to watch them. Whenever, wherever I like. He does not know yet that things are far more complicated than he ever imagined, that Brad has some kind of understanding with some people at Kritiker because he is planning our exit from Eszet, and not even he can manage this all by himself. We are untouchable, by Weiss at least, and bringing Balinese back from his chosen exile was one of the jobs we didto confirm this newfound friendship…

I almost felt a twang of regret, for it had been so easy, the bait so obvious, his reaction so damn predictable. I resent him being such a dork where Abyssinian is concerned.

However, we must be considerate. We are not allowed to murder any of them. It would not be an interesting job, anyway. But no one stops us from playing around a bit, as long as we are careful. No, he has no idea, their masters are not very good at clueing in their agents. Bad mistake, I'd say. Poor management. Not that I'd complain.

I enjoy his company. Tough, bright, determined not to let go of hope. Though sometimes I wonder whether I wasn't a little overambitious. Brad does not likethis one bit, but I want it. I want Balinese to like me. Without me twisting his mind round my little finger, without forcing him, even without killing hissorrow that has red hair and purple contacts. I want him, of his own free will, and that's the only reason I haven't wasted his lover yet. I could, at the click of my tongue, at the flick of Far's knife. But it would not be the same. Balinese would not be the same all still and dying slowly.

Brad seemed relieved when he found out.  
Nagi shook his head, his eyes sadder than ever.  
And Far – I could have killed him for laughing so hard that he was still clucking when I decided I'd had enough, and left the house to go Kudoh watching.

And when I saw the pair of them leave,Balinese shimmering in gold and cream, redhead in wintry perfection, and I lit a cigarette to overcome the nasty bitter taste in my mouth, I wondered whether Brad's smile meant he knew I'd fail.

Hope is not a concept he would endorse.  
We have a lot in common, Balinese and I, always chasing the unattainable…

But to me, this means talking away nights on a chill beach with him warm and close, smoking like a fiend. It means someone listens, even though he hardly talks back. He will touch me, sometimes, just a fleeting raking of fingertips through my hair, the brush of a hand against my thigh, a breathful of smoke against my nostrils. He knows who I am. He knows my sins and my guilt, and that I am not willing to regret - there is nothing that could wipe out the past. And I've always been fighting to live, or Eszet would have ground me down like a bloody afterbirth. That's why Brad picked me for his team. I am a fighter.

Balinese pauses as they cross the road, him smoking, one gloved hand in the pocket of his fine jacket – I know he has a coiled up wire there, ready to use it should the need arise. He casts his gaze around, while Abyssinian stalks ahead, oblivious.

And then Balinese looks up and catches my eye. He blows a stream of smoke from his nostrils, his face carefully blanked, his eyes cool.

Cool.  
No longer hostile.  
Before he breaks away to follow his lover with long, smooth steps.

He did not smile.  
I do.

**THE END**

**xxx**

**Notes:  
1** They are going to... see 'Special Gifts'

**fundoshi** - loincloth that gets twisted and knotted into a piece of scant underwear for men  
**nagajuban, hadajuban** - layers of kimono (shift, first underkimono)  
**hakama **- wide, pleated pants (they have seven pleats)  
**zori** - flip-flop type sandals  
**obi** - to tie the kimono


End file.
